Quite Alone
by Shadow Rise
Summary: Neville gets ready for a funeral. (May have a few drabbles/oneshots to go along with it.)
1. Neville

It was a clear, sunny morning in London, England, and the light shining through his window was near to blinding. Neville threw an arm up to shield his eyes while the other searched for is wand. A muttered command and a flick of the wrist gave him relief as the drapes snapped closed. It had no right to be so bright, not now. Not today.

"Dad?" The voice was soft and uncertain, followed by the shuffling of feet.

He grunted his acknowledgment, eyes still covered.

"Dad," she began, her voice still soft, but more confident now. "You have to get ready."

"Alright," he rasped, turning his bleary eyes to take her in. "Are you and Poppy ready?"

She gave a small nod, then patted a pile of clothes on his dresser. "I got your clothes together, too."

_Just like your mum would. _He nodded, murmuring a thanks. She nodded again, leaving him to dress. Neville sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he did so, his head swimming a bit with the sudden movement. He gave a great sigh as he stretched, feeling stiff and tired still, despite the ample amount of sleep he'd gotten. His slumber was hardly restful lately. He padded over to the chest of drawers and began to dress, not bothering to shave. He wasn't trying to impress anyone.

He stared into the mirror as he twisted the necktie into a poor excuse for a Windsor knot. He was always such rubbish with ties, and if he should try a spell he was sure he'd only end up strangling himself. Not that it sounded so unappealing at the moment.

"Let's not think like that, Longbottom," he chided, straightening his vest.

No need to tempt himself.

Neville frowned at his reflection, earning a smart comment from the mirror. He looked, in a word, pathetic. His hair was a disheveled mess, hardly helped by a comb, and his chin and cheeks were covered by patchy stubble. His eyes were rimmed with black circles, ruining any chance he had of fooling anyone that he was sleeping well. The suit, once his best, had seen better days. The knees were still a bit green from a fall he'd taken at Harry and Ginny's garden wedding. The jacket still held a faint aroma of pine needles from the Christmas gala where he'd fallen into the tree. And the pocket of his vest had a rip from the night he proposed to Hannah. He had been so nervous that he'd torn it trying to get the ring out.

"I can't do this," he whispered, running a hand down his face.

There was a knock at the bedroom door, followed by a soft, "Neville?"

"Come in, Ginny."

She entered, her red hair standing out brilliantly in the dreary room. "I just came to see if you needed any help with the kids," she said kindly, her dark eyes filled with sadness. "But I believe they're all set but for trying to find Fenny's stuffed slug." 

The stuffed slug that he'd gotten Hannah after an unfortunate garden incident.

He nodded and swallowed the lump that formed in his throat at the thought of his children. "D'you think you could take them with you, Ginny? I-I think I'm going to need a moment before I'm able to Apparate."

She nodded quickly. "Yeah, that's fine, I can go ahead with them. We'll see you there, yeah?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice to stay quite so even this time. She left, shutting the door behind her, and Neville sat on the edge of the bed. He took the picture frame from the bedside table as he heard Ginny gathering the kids all together downstairs. The frame held a candid shot from only seven months ago at the Three Broomsticks' Christmas party, and he could feel the tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. There she was, waving and blowing him kisses while the Neville in the picture just smiled with his arm about her shoulders. It was the first night they'd had out since Fennel was born.

Little Fenny, who had to grow up without his mother now. And his sweet Poppy, who still didn't quite understand what had happened. And Azalea, who was being so strong and brave for her siblings...

"How are we going to make it without you, love?"

He set the photo down and sighed, swiping bitterly at the moisture forming in his eyes. No, he wasn't going to cry. Not right now. He had to go and be strong for his children. He would save the crying for tonight when they were asleep and he was alone again.

He left the bedroom and descended the stairs, just barely catching the _crack _that signaled Ginny and his brood had left. The house was deadly silent in the absence of the three blonde rascals that usually filled it with such life. He sat heavily on the bottom step, earning a loud creak that seemed to echo around him. Neville suddenly felt quite alone indeed.

When the tears came this time, he let them. 

**A/N: **_As always, there's some etymology to these names;)_

**Azalea Alice Longbottom: **Azalea flowers are a symbol of femininity and softness, but also give the message, 'take care of yourself, for me.' Alice is obviously after Neville's mum. He wanted to name her for his Gran as well, but Augusta refused to pass her "horrid" name on to anyone. Neville named her for his Gran's favorite flower instead.

**Poppy Pomona Longbottom: **Named for two women that cared for Neville and Hannah during their time at Hogwarts, although the poppy flower is a symbol of peace and remembrance as well.

**Fennel Franklin Longbottom: **Fennel is an herb that, when properly mixed or brewed, can be used to help minor ailments. Frank is for Neville's father. (This was the hardest to think of – wanted to keep with the alliteration but there aren't many plant names that start with F for boys.)


	2. Poppy

Poppy

Poppy cut her eyes toward the bedroom door as the sound of her father's shuffling gait met her ears. She heard him pause outside her room. She could picture him now, standing there in his dressing with one hand reaching tentatively for the doorknob while the other held a glass or perhaps a bottle of brandy with a white-knuckle grip. She could see his handsome face, now covered with thick stubble, as he weighed his thoughts, trying to choose the right words to say. He hadn't had much to say lately.

Poppy's eyes stayed glued to the door that separated them, half wishing he _would_ enter and catch her, but the moment passed and she could hear his steps resume as he continued onward and upward to his room.

Poppy ignored the sinking feeling in her chest and turned her eyes back to the text before her. _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1,_ lay open before her on the floor. A simple set of instructions with a simple enough result. But, if she got it right, it would mean the world to her. It would mean that every bad thought, every bit of self-doubt, every single voice that hissed _Squib _in her ear... They would all be wrong, and she would have proof.

The polished cherry wood of her father's wand gleamed in the light of her candle, bringing her back from her negative thoughts. The long, tapered piece of wood rested between pages fourteen and fifteen, holding her place as she read. She had refused to even hold it properly until she had committed every step of the spell to her memory.

It would be her first and it would be perfect.

"Lu-_mos_,she murmured, practicing her pronunciation. _鏑__oo_-mus... Loo-moos... _Lu_-mos."

She decided the last one was correct, or the least incorrect at any rate.

She lifted her right hand and extended her index finger, as though she was pointing at one of her many posters. Checking the diagram on the page again, she began to trace a small loop-like shape in the air with the same finger. She repeated it until she was quite satisfied with the motion. She had the words, she had the motion, she had her concentration. Reaching forward, she was amazed to see her had so steady. She wrapped her slim fingers around the hilt of the wand, firm but gentle all at once.

Growing up with her family's horror stories about her father's early magic skills, she was surprised she even knew which end to hold.

She shook her head to rid herself of such thoughts. She refused to be a Negative Nelly. She could do this just fine. So what if she was seven-years-old? Seven was plenty old enough. Her Gran had told her many times that her father's parents had both shown their budding magical abilities _ages_ before they'd gotten their Hogwarts letters. Her own sister had been summoning blocks and toys since she was a baby.

But not Poppy, sweet Poppy, pretty Poppy... _stupid Poppy._ She was a dud. A Squib. She just knew it.

"Stop,she scolded herself quietly.

She raised the wand in her hand once more and swirled the same pattern as she had with her finger. She could do it. She would do just fine. She _would._

After a few test runs, she licked her lips and straightened her back, her nerves steeled toward success. Wand out, her hold unfaltering, she began to form the loop one last time. "_Lumos_,she whispered, the word blooming on her lips with perfect diction and command.

A small light shone from the tip of her borrowed wand. She watched the light grow stronger as she felt the joy swell in her chest. What first was only barely glowing soon shone across the room to light the dark spot under her bed, revealing more of her sister's pilfered spell books. Poppy smiled as wide as she ever had, excited to write her sister and tell her of the progress she'd made. And her father! Oh they'd be so _proud! _Especiallyhim.

She stood quickly, holding the wand out in front of her carefully as she made for the door. It would be alright if he was a bit upset , she knew that he'd be more than happy once his disapproval waned. She made quick work of the stairs up to her father's room, standing outside it a moment before she reached for the doorknob. Poppy froze, however, upon hearing a small, muffled sob from the other side of the oak door. She remembered, then, the picture she had imagined of her father earlier and realized just how accurate it probably was. Poppy dropped her outstretched hand back to her side, still holding the wand evenly with the other, and decided that perhaps it was best to share this news with Azalea for now.

She turned away from the door, already composing the words in her head and wondering where her Quick Quotes Quill could be, before she paused, thinking of her baby brother. She listened a bit harder, her ears straining, and could just barely hear him. He was down the hall in his nursery, fussing softly. Poppy smiled again, making her way down the hall and into the small room.

Fennel lay on his back, eyes searching the darkness above his crib as he reached above his head searchingly. She saw the object of his hunt, a half-empty bottle of milk, and placed it back in his pudgy grasp. He held fast to the container, his dark eyes watching her intently by the wandlight. She willed the light to dim until it was just a small glow at the tip of the wand. She then began drawing shapes and letters and numbers above his cot, amusing him enough to elicit small, sweet gurgles. Stifling a yawn after a few minutes, Poppy switched to lazy, soothing patterns, curlicues and swirls dancing over her brother's head.

She smiled as Fennel commenced to snoring, a sound slumber settling over him, leaving her feeling more satisfied than any praise from her father or sister ever could have.

"_Nox_."

Done for my _Inspiration Strikes _prompts on the HPFC Forum (always taking new people!).

Prompt: mastering magic

There may be more oneshots/drabbles on this storyline, but no promises. R&R! Might take a suggestion or two if you have something you'd like to read regarding the Longbottoms.


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